


I Have Promises To Keep (And Miles To Go Before I Sleep)

by Sir_Bedevere



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-26
Updated: 2014-12-26
Packaged: 2018-03-03 18:07:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2860127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sir_Bedevere/pseuds/Sir_Bedevere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four times Boromir lost sleep over someone, and one time they lost sleep over him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Have Promises To Keep (And Miles To Go Before I Sleep)

_i._  
It was an unusual sound, the cry of the baby ringing through the Citadel.

Boromir covered his head with his pillow but it did not quiet the noise. His chamber was too close to the babe’s, tucked up at the top of one of the towers. Mother and Father had a chamber here too, until Faramir was born. Father had moved away to the east wing when that had happened, taking Mother with him, so she could be closer to the healers.

The crying did not stop. Faramir had never made a sound in all his whole two months of life. The healers said the babe was born in sorrow, as though he knew how ill his mother had become. Boromir did not understand his silence, because he felt like screaming and screaming until his chest burst open. Perhaps the baby was like Father though, who spent long hours in silence at Mother’s side and only seemed to speak when he was sending Faramir back to his room whenever the wet nurse tried to bring him out.

Clambering from his bed, Boromir put on his robe and padded quietly from the room. He would be scolded if someone found him awake but he did not care. He had to see what ailed his little brother. No one else cared for him.

The room was dark, only the fire in the corner making any light. There was a moon but it was not a strong one, and he could hardly see the nurse who rocked the bundle in her arms. Boromir leaned around the door, waiting for the woman to see him before he crept in. 

“Little lord,” Thala murmured, “Did the babe wake you? I am sorry.”

“Why is he crying so? Is he ill?”

“I do not know,” Thala shook her head, “But he screams as though his little heart will break.”

Boromir took a step closer, nearer to the fire that robbed the chill from the air, but he did not look at the baby.

“My father says it is his fault, that mother is so ill. Faramir hurt her.”

“I do not question my lord Denethor,” Thala sighed, “But there is no fault. Sometimes a woman ails after a child is born. A sad truth of the birthing room and nothing more.”

“It is not fair.”

“No, it is not. But it is no more Faramir’s fault than it is yours, my little lord.”

The firelight cast a strange glow over the room and when Boromir finally looked at the baby, he noticed something he had not seen before.

“His hair is almost red,” he said, “Almost red, like hers.”

“I know. He will be as handsome as his brother, mark me.”

Boromir blushed and reached out a hand, stroking the mop of hair with one finger. Faramir stopped crying but whimpered still, grey eyes staring up from his blanket nest.

“Would you hold him a moment, lord?” Thala asked, “Let him know someone loves him. Perhaps it will ease him a little.”

“I do not know how.”

“Then I will show you.”

Thala stood up and nodded to the chair. Boromir settled down and held out his arms. Thala laid the babe in them, moving his elbow a little so that the baby was comfortable.

“He’s so small,” Boromir whispered, “Why is he so small?”

“He does not eat well, lord,” Thala said, moving around the room folding blankets, “But listen. He has stopped.”

The silence was almost as loud as the screaming had been. Now Faramir gazed up until his eyes closed and then he was asleep.

“He knows his brother,” Thala said quietly, “He knows you are there.”

“How can he know me? He is only a baby.”

“I believe he knows more than you would think of him, little lord. Never doubt that.”

Thala went out of the room for a moment, saying she needed to get something for the baby, and Boromir gazed into the fire, scared to move in case he woke Faramir again. He must have closed his eyes, because the next thing he knew it was morning and he was in his own bed, tucked up against the cold. 

It was still quiet. Faramir had slept through the night.

_ii._  
There were few of them left, as night fell over Osgiliath. Boromir surveyed the men he had left, a mere handful clinging to the bank of the Anduin and still holding the bridge against the dark forces that had poured like sewage from Mordor. 

Too many men had been lost.

Far too many.

“We cannot hold on,” Faramir appeared from around the corner where he had been keeping watch on the far bank, “We will lose this, brother.”

“I know. I do not know why they have pulled back when they are so close.”

“They toy with us,” Faramir moved close to Boromir’s side and lowered his voice, “If we linger until the morning, they will kill us all.”

Boromir forced himself to look at the men he had remaining. Six. Six from a force that had been many men strong. He and his brother had escaped injury, as had two others, but two were hurt. One had taken an arrow in the arm and seemed well enough, but the sixth, Beregond, was in much worse condition. Faramir said his ribs had been crushed, and the man’s laboured breathing was proof enough of that diagnosis. 

“If we lose Osgiliath-”

“I know what he will say, better than most,” Faramir said, “But we have no choice. He would hate to lose Osgiliath and his heir.”

“Heirs,” Boromir automatically corrected his brother, catching Faramir’s eye and the sad smile that he tried to hide, “He does not know it perhaps, but he would hate to lose you too.”

“So we leave,” Faramir said gently, “As soon as it is light enough, before they are ready. We swim the river and skirt around them.”

“And Beregond? He cannot swim.”

“He may not last the night,” Faramir murmured, “I have done what I can for him but I cannot predict his fate.”

“If he still lives by dawn, I will carry him if I must,” Boromir said firmly, “And now you must sleep. I will take first watch.”

The men were trained soldiers, able to sleep in the most uncomfortable of places, and they were exhausted as well. Even Faramir, who had never been the best of sleepers, was gone in a few moments. The night was cold and the men huddled together, their breaths fogging in the air. Boromir paced their little stretch of the bank, one eye on the Orc fires that burned across the bridge and another on his sleeping charges. They would have to go further down the river to swim across, perhaps as far as the guard tower on the eastern wall. There was good cover there; they would not be completely free of the enemy gaze but it was the best chance that they had. 

If they even made it to the tower unnoticed.

Beregond took another breath then, one that sounded more painful than the rest. He went silent afterwards and Boromir’s own breath caught, as he hurried to the man’s side and knelt down, willing him to breathe again. After a second, a moment, an hour, Beregond did so, with a grimace that set his face and brow into a scowl. 

Weak with relief, Boromir settled down more comfortably at Beregond’s side, watching the rise and fall of his chest, counting the passing of time in the man’s breathing. Beregond was a good man, more of Faramir’s friend, truth be told, but a good man. He had a young wife and a babe, a boy no older than a year or two. He was the sort of man that Boromir always promised himself he would get home, if he could.

The hours passed and Boromir kept his vigil, over Beregond and the other men. He should have awoken one of them to take the watch but he could not. On this night, with death so close by, he would watch. He would protect them, and when the morning came he would shoulder Beregond’s weight and he would lead his men across the river.

This was his duty, and his alone. 

He would see his men safe.

_iii._  
The elf ran over the snow as though he did not even notice it. Boromir envied him his light-footedness, but even he did not suffer as some did. Gimli, weighed down by his armour, struggled through the drifts and sank ever further into them, although he did not complain. The hobbits were carried more often than not, by Gandalf, by Boromir himself and by Aragorn. The wizard, like Legolas, did not seem to mind the snow and Boromir managed well enough, but even Aragorn struggled and seemed to tire towards nightfall. For once, Boromir thought, his stouter frame proved an advantage and not a hindrance.

Gandalf built them a fire, a fire strong enough to burn through the night, and the elf offered to take the watch for the night, to let them all sleep a little at least and replenish some strength for the hard road. Boromir arranged the bedrolls of the hobbits close to the fire, stood over them as they made ready for bed and wrapped them in blankets so they slept warmly in pairs. Gimli had settled himself near to the wizard and fallen asleep before the rest of them had even laid out the bedrolls.

Aragorn spoke a little with Gandalf and then, wrapping himself in his blanket, placed his back to the fire and seemed to slumber instantly. Boromir, after one more check of the sleeping hobbits, laid down too. 

The cold seeped through him, and although he moved a few inches closer to the fire, he was not sated. A faint clicking sound carried across the camp and he eventually realised that the noise was Aragorn’s teeth. The man could not be sleeping through such a thing. It was when Aragorn sneezed, the sound as foreign to Boromir’s ears as the call of an Oliphant, that he made his move. It would not do for Aragorn to sicken on this journey. They could not afford the time or the worry.

Gathering up his bedroll, Boromir picked his way through the hobbits and nudged Aragorn with his foot. The Ranger turned immediately, grey eyes squinting up at Boromir suspiciously.

“You are cold,” Boromir said, “As am I. I suggest we do as our companions have and share blankets for warmth. What say you?”

It was testament to how miserable Aragorn was that he smiled and unrolled himself from the blanket with nothing more than a nod of his head. Boromir laid his bedroll down, careful to ensure Aragorn was closest to the fire, and settled next to the other man, taking both the blankets and spreading them over their frozen bodies.

“Sleep well,” Aragorn said, turning on his side, “Thank you, brother.”

“You are welcome, my lord,” Boromir murmured, shifting a little closer until he was almost touching the other man and closing his eyes. Gimli’s soft snores were the only sound besides the crackle of the fire and soon a blessed, dreamless sleep rose from the warmth and took Boromir gently in its arms.

_iv._  
The White Lady knew his heart, had read it like a book in the library of the Citadel, and she had not cast him out of her realm. She knew his shame and she did not turn from him.

Perhaps his darkness was not the end of him, after all.

The others were sleeping now, save Legolas who ran with his brethren and Aragorn who paced restlessly. Boromir could hear her voice still, echoing in his mind, whispers and images that he could not be sure were real. She showed him destruction; the city of Gondor burning, the world of men turned to dust, forces of evil marching forever across a plain. A leafy, green place full of little folk who looked like the hobbits, bound in chains. Dwarf mines, full of small armoured corpses, the great kingdoms laid waste. Elves fleeing their woodlands, the unlucky dead in their thousands, the lucky boarding ships with limbs bound and blood in their golden hair. 

She showed him all.

But there was light also. He saw the White Tree, healthy and whole once more, pulsing with a life he was sure had left it. He saw Mordor aflame, the tower falling, the ground collapsing, the filth dying. He saw a faceless king, a man with dark hair and a regal bearing, crowned once more. And he saw Faramir, his little brother, with a fair haired maiden at his side, a woman who looked at him with all of the love that he had deserved all of his life. 

She showed him all, and he knew not what it meant.

“Help me,” he whispered, hoping she would hear him, wherever she was, “Help me know for sure.”

The White Lady did not answer him. 

And Boromir was granted no sleep in the lands of Lothlorien. 

_\+ i._  
Pippin thought his bones would break, the orcs threw him so hard onto the ground. Merry landed beside him and rolled closer, so they were lying together with their backs to a tree. The orcs moved away, closer to the fire, and Pippin tried not to cry when Merry looked at him and pressed their foreheads together.

“Are you alright, Pip?” he murmured, “Have they hurt you?”

“No,” Pippin said, “I’m fine. Where are they taking us, Merry?”

“I don’t think I want to know, Pip.”

Merry went quiet then, closing his eyes and looking away.

“Try and sleep, Pip. We might need it.”

“I can’t.”

“Try.”

“I keep seeing him when I close my eyes. Do you think he’s still alive, Merry?”

His cousin sighed and looked at him again. Merry’s eyes were shiny in the half light of the fire and for a long while he did not answer.

“I don’t know, Pip. Perhaps if Aragorn and Legolas found him soon enough, he could live.”

“But you don’t think he is, do you?”

“No,” Merry said, and his voice caught like he was trying to force it out, “I do not.”

He turned over and curled his legs up to his chest, and Pippin thought he was shaking for a while, but then he went still and he seemed like he was sleeping. 

“He tried to save us,” Pippin said to himself, and he felt hot, fat tears squeeze out from his eyes and reached up to wipe them away, “He just wanted to go home, Merry, and now he never will.”

Pippin started to cry then, turning on his side away from the orcs so they could not hear him, and then Merry rolled over and put an arm around him. 

“I know, Pip. I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title, of course, by Robert Frost


End file.
